


Music

by resurrectionmercy



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Music, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 00:46:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16006763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectionmercy/pseuds/resurrectionmercy
Summary: Connor learns the difference between hearing and listening.





	Music

**Author's Note:**

> You guys know what I love? 4thewords.com.  
> Like. For real. If you write or if you have difficulties doing the writing thing but you'd like to be writing, I have to recommend this website. No, I'm not paid. Listen.
> 
> It took me exactly 49 minutes to write this story. It's 2 700 words long. My pace averages at 300 words per 6 minutes, and I'm this close to finishing the event quest for my Tico pants.
> 
> Honestly. Go check the website out. It's so much fun. I have barely been writing anything at all for months and now I can't stop because, like. Statistics. Streaks. Achievements. Monster battles. Apparently when you combine gaming and writing I become an unstoppable force of mediocre creativity.
> 
> Anyway, here's today's streak story. Enjoy. Also, by the way, [this](https://open.spotify.com/track/6eEUjD1HwIvR5UhSEByZ6b?si=CTmsKu33RyWJwuEsJ6n-fg) is the song that was playing in the last scene - you're welcome.

* * *

 

Connor sits still in the passenger's seat. He's not quite there, his thoughts re-running through the evidence from the past few days, but the case doesn't make much sense. Nevertheless, he's content; they've made enough progress to satisfy the headquarters, to satisfy  _Hank_ , and the man beside him is chewing away at his burger with his face vanishing deep into the wrappers whenever he takes a bite. They've been quiet for some time, ever since the conversation died to a satisfied silence where nothing much was left to talk about, and outside, snow's falling heavier than ever. It's December, and Detroit, now after so much chaos from November's uprising and the political upheaval that followed it, looks peaceful for once. It's hard to imagine that out there, a murderer is running free; they've both been transferred back to homicide now that android crimes are supposedly one and the same with other crimes. Connor's not so sure; even here, the victims are androids. Most homicide victims suddenly are. Almost as if, he thinks, nothing changed with their supposedly granted citizen status - like they're still getting killed left and right for the smallest reasons, because humans, no matter how convinced the population may be, still recognise them as different and treat them the same.

He looks down at his lap, his LED's blue light reflecting from the car's window on his left side. Hank turns a gaze towards him, curious; it's the first time he moves in a while.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," Connor says, and he's quite honest about it. It  _is_  nothing to him. This is the world he was created in and it has remained unchanged for the months he's been in it. This, and what was before, are all the same; only a sense of urgency has left him with the control of CyberLife. Amanda, similarly, is now silent in his head. "I was just thinking about the case."

"It's sad, isn't it."

"What about it?"

"What about it isn't?" Hank asks, balling the wrappers in his hands and throwing them over his shoulder on the backseat. 

For a man who cares this little, his car sure is clean; he never leaves the wrappers there, no matter how many he might throw over the course of his shift.

"I don't think people will change fast enough for these cases to stop pouring in, Lieutenant," Connor says, deciding it's the smartest thing to do to simply speak what's truly on his mind, "We'll see more of them, even after we solve this one.  _If_  we solve this one."

"Why of so little faith all of a sudden? You think we can't crack this case?" Hank asks him, shifting.  
He plants his elbow against the window and examines Connor with sharp eyes, curious and doubtful at once.

"No," Connor says slowly, "I do think we can crack it. But what comes after - people won't stop killing androids. You know that. We're still just machines to the most of them, nothing more, no matter our legal rights."

"Well, if that's the case then the only thing we can do is teach them otherwise. They think they can beat an android and it's nothing worse than bashing a computer, cracking someone's window? They'll find otherwise, once they find themselves facing charges for first degree murder. That's what I give a shit about, Connor. Not whether people are good or bad inside because life ain't that black and white, but whether we can do our part in making it better. And I'm gonna make it better - by catching these law-breaking bastards and putting them behind bars. That's my job, and I'll be damned if I don't do it."

Connor lifts his gaze and looks at Hank, and there's a smile on the man, and it's gentler than Connor expected.

"You care so much for androids now," Connor notes, "You of all people."

"Right. Turns out this old dog learned some new tricks, and most of them, I can thank you for. So thanks. Thanks for giving me more reason to hate people and like anything and anyone else above them. Thanks for reminding me that we're the root and cause of all evil in the world. Thanks, Connor. Really."

"You sound sarcastic."

"That would be because I am. Tell you what, though," Hank says, "We've been sitting here for twenty minutes in full silence doing nothing and you've got nowhere to be and I've got nowhere to be, so how about I drive us back to my place and show you something that ain't half bad?"

"What are you talking about?" Connor asks, watching as Hank turns the keys in the car's ignition and the engine roars back into life.

"Remember when you were ass-kissing me for the first time, back at the office on our first day as partners?" Hank asks him, taking them off the parking lot and round and around, the wheels sliding on the icy pavement as they face the opposite direction and start heading towards his house, or so Connor expects. "You were asking me all sorts of stupid questions and acting all buddy pal with me."

"I remember that," Connor replies, a small, crooked smile on him. "What about it?"

"You lied to me, you know. You said you liked music, but you'd actually never even listened to any."

"Well, that's not entirely true - I did listen to what you had on your device," Connor confesses.

"Oh? So you did snoop around my stuff," Hank chuckles. "Well, it doesn't matter. What I'm saying is that you told me that you didn't  _really_  listen to music, or like music, or understand music, but you'd  _like_  to, and I don't think that was a lie. You have these fuckin' quirks, Connor. That odd passion for all things human, for all things of this world. You want to understand, and you want to  _experience._  And I just realised, you've been a citizen of our great country for three weeks now, and yet, you still haven't listened to music."

"I've listened to plenty of music by now," Connor points out, his fingertips tracing the radio, about to turn it on.

Hank smacks his hand away.  
"No," he says simply, his voice a gruff like an old dog's, "You've  _heard_ music, not listened to it; there's a difference. You can  _hear_  a lot of things without listening, but music needs to be  _listened_ to before you can really  _hear_  it. It's everywhere - it's always there when I'm driving, it's always there when I'm eating, shopping, taking a crap, but am I listening to it? No, I'm not. And I bet you listen to it even less than I do; it's nothing but background noise to you, your system probably shifts it off and aside as unnecessary information. Connor, that's not how you listen to music, and I'm going to show you how that's done so that you can learn to hear it right. You said you think you'd like it, and you know what? I think you're right."

Connor watches the snowfall batter the glass separating them from the weather outside, and the car does its best to shift it off, and in his mind, Connor realises Hank's not wrong. That is what his mind does: it shifts away the music, because it holds no information valuable to him. It is a distraction at best, something he shouldn't focus on in favour of other, more important things that could come his way.

"Why do you think that?" he asks then, turning to look at the driver.

"Because," Hank tells him, "Music is ultimately mathematics. You and music, you work the same way. You're both numbers. You both follow logic, and without logic, you both mess up. There's no music that can be called music without symmetry and continuity; music that doesn't follow the rules isn't music, it's noise. So, you see, I think you can learn to not only understand, but  _enjoy_  music, because ultimately it's just another sequence. I'm interested to see how correct this hypothesis is."

"You sound like one of CyberLife's engineers now. They, too, liked testing android compatibility with human culture and behaviour."

"But music isn't human culture and behaviour. Well - obviously, it is," Hank says, tossing his head to the side, "but you know what I mean. It's more than that. It makes sense, alright? You like things that make sense. So it makes sense that you'll like music, too. Alright, time to shut up, you're making my head hurt."

Connor smiles. He stays silent until they reach the house, and even there, he only speaks a soft greeting to the dog at the door.

 

* * *

 

Hank's house has changed in the span of a few weeks. Instead of empty cardboard boxes for pizza and Chinese takeaway, he's got some dishes waiting to be loaded in for washing; he's started cooking again, started cleaning up, and even though he still leaves his clothes wherever he damn well pleases (in his own words), for the main part the house no longer looks neglected and dark and stuffy. Sumo's got a new bed to sleep in, and the air that flows in from the bedroom smells fresh to Connor's sensors - a little too fresh, he realises, and takes a detour inside there as Hank pushes forwards into the house. The window's open, and Connor closes it quietly, leaving the room chilly but knowing it won't stay that way for long; he kneels down to turn on the heater, then walks out again, facing Hank peering from the kitchen with a suspicious look on his face.

"Why do you gotta go sneaking in my damn bedroom first thing after walking in?" Hank asks him, dropping a moistened rag onto the counter from his hands.  
He looks like he was wiping down the surface before he noticed Connor coming out of his bedroom.

"You forgot your window open."

"Aw, shit. I thought it felt freezing in here. That'd be why. I keep forgetting I open it in the morning, keep forgetting to close it, and keep forgetting I forgot to close it after forgetting I even opened it in the first place. You closed it now?"

"Yes."

"Thanks, Connor. Don't go domestic on me, though, you know I can't afford to hire a maid."

Connor smiles.  
"If you don't tell anyone, you won't have to."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The android leans to the counter and looks up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of it - the grease stains above the stove are new.  
"I did close the window."

"Ah. You're telling me I should be taking you home more often with me. Do you get lonely or something up at the station? Don't your android friends keep you company? Look, Connor..."

Hank's eyes turn for the living room, and his sentence fades out. Then, he picks himself up, pushes the rag aside and walks to his collection of vinyls. To Connor's surprise, he passes them, and leans down instead; he pulls out a stand and places his phone there, flicks the screen on and searches something from the machine's memory. Then he looks up and motions Connor closer.

"Alright. Are you ready for this?"

"Ready for what?"

"Music."

"I - would suppose so, yes," Connor says, and Hank nods at him.

"Then sit down. Take a seat. I don't care where; anywhere's good, as long as you're comfortable, as long as you think you can stay there for some time. Well? Stop standing there, go somewhere."

"I'm comfortable right here," Connor tells him, sounding mildly confused and just a little bit defensive. "I don't have to relax, Lieutenant. I'm an android. I don't get tired."

"I  _know_ that," Hank grunts, "just humour me, alright? Come on, pick a seat."

Connor sighs, shrugs, and looks around. Then he sees the big dog curled under a lamp in the corner, and something in him feels  _right_  at that thought, so he walks to Sumo and sits down beside him on the edge of his plaid-pattern bed. He turns his eyes to Hank whose brows are lifted and head raised with his lips parting slightly, but the man gives up before he even begins to contest Connor's choice, and he simply shakes his head and pushes a button on his phone instead. Then he travels the length of the room and sinks into an arm chair.

"Alright. Now, close your eyes and do what I say, Connor."

Placidly, Connor obeys. Darkness floods his vision and his hearing perks up to replace the sensory feed, to give him a good image of his surroundings and help his mind palace retain a proper image of the area despite the loss of visual feed, and he hears the first note echo from, it seems, everywhere around him. He almost opens his eyes to look for the source, but realises that he would be disobeying direct orders if he did so, so he forces his eyes to stay closed and locates the hidden speakers in the room without the help of his eyes instead. There are five of them, one that amplifies the lower sounds and four that prioritize different  _directions_ coded into the tracks, and as the volume keeps rising, it takes over most other aspects of his awareness. He sees nothing, and his sensory feed only echoes with the warmth of the dog beside him and the material of the surface he's sitting on, as well as the texture of his own clothes underneath his resting palm; he's momentarily distracted from the music by the realisation that his other hand has escaped into the fur of the animal behind him, but he forces his focus back to the sound feed and leaves his fingertips in Sumo's warmth, moving on their own accord in a pattern he's learned by now the dog enjoys the most.

"You hearing this?" Hank asks, and his voice seems... distant. Not physically so: it comes from the same place he seated himself in while Connor was still watching, but as if Connor's focus has left him entirely, and he's merely a sidenote in his existence.

Slowly, Connor nods.  
"Yes. I am hearing it."

"Alright. Now, concentrate on the guitar, if you would. The picking. Listen to the fingertips on those chords and visualise them.  _Feel_  them picking at the guitar. Go ahead. Give it a moment."

The sounds bounce in Connor's mind palace. It's starting to go dark with the lack of reliable information from his surroundings, and instead, he's visualising things that couldn't possibly exist in the world outside it - golden drops of liquid, moving in rhythm with the touches of the artist's fingers upon his instrument. Like water. Other instruments join in; bass, with its low sound bouncing alongside the guitar, and a harp, and drums somewhere fadedly in the background, but Connor keeps his attention on the guitar until the harp all but sweeps him in, and from there, it's a wild ride down, as if sliding down in a stream so deep that there's no fear in his mind of hitting a rock on the way down. He doesn't know where he's going, but his body responds to that sensation with that of falling, and his hand shifts down from his lap and grabs the edge of the dog's bed while his other hand ceases movement over Sumo's back, and he simply sits there, holding on for comfort and safety as the music pulls him deeper into that darkness of his mind palace full of waves of something golden and heavy that illuminates his mind.

When the song fades, Hank lets out a short laugh.

"Open your eyes, Connor."

Connor does so, but only slowly, as if coming out of his power down state, with his systems whirring back online - he hardly noticed them turning off to begin with. His visual feed returns, and with it, the darkness of his mind palace shifts, returning to its usual state of calculated and well-mapped out informational feed of his physical surroundings, and he seeks out Hank, who's leaning his jaw to the back of his palm with a satisfied smirk on him.

"Now  _that's_  what I call listening to music," he says, and Connor agrees.


End file.
